Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  “No sign of a struggle,” Henry pointed out. Alex relaxed slightly. He was right. It looked as if Smith and Jean had had to go down to the town, leaving the door unlocked for her. And yet...something wasn't quite right. She slipped upstairs and checked the bedrooms, finding nothing that suggested trouble. “They might have just gone out for a drive...”

  “Maybe,” Alex said. “Or maybe...”

  The sound of alien helicopters echoed out of nowhere. Alex started, and then ran for the door, suddenly certain what she’d see outside. Five helicopters were racing towards the farmhouse, aliens already rappelling down ropes to hit the ground just as the helicopters came to a halt. Alex reached for the gun she’d shoved into her belt, but it was far too late. A dozen aliens were advancing towards her, weapons pointed right at her chest. How the hell had they known...? It struck her, suddenly, that the aliens might have been watching as they walked back from Dereham. They could have orbited a drone so high overhead that the naked eye couldn't have made it out against the sun’s glare...

  “Put up your hands,” the lead alien ordered. “Resistance is futile...”

  Henry drew his pistol and opened fire, shooting madly towards the aliens. Alex could have told him not to waste his energy. The handguns they had weren't that accurate and alien body armour was more than enough to protect them, unless they were hit in the uncovered parts of their heads. They opened fire, their shells blowing Henry apart and scattering his bloody remains across the farmyard. Alex kept very still, thinking hard. Who had betrayed her? Smith and his wife, or someone down at the town? Probably the latter, she told herself, and she hoped that she was right. She didn't want to think that Smith might have betrayed her.

  The aliens came closer, dark unblinking eyes fixed on her form. Their hands seemed to end in oversized fingernails – no, those were claws – and she had to fight not to cringe back as they tore at her clothes, removing her pistol and everything else she'd been carrying on her person. The claws seemed sharp enough to cut through her bare skin, convincing her that trying to fight hand-to-hand with the aliens was a bad idea. They kept two weapons pointed at her at all times, even after they’d finished searching her and wrapped a plastic tie around her hands, binding them behind her back. She wanted to laugh, or cry. They’d caught her – and if they knew how important she was to the resistance cells, they’d torture her until she talked. If they hadn't caught Archer, perhaps he’d know to order the cells to scatter before Alex broke. He’d assume the worst, wouldn't he?

  They pushed her to the ground and left her there while they searched the house. It was hard to see what they were doing from her position, but it sounded as though they were tearing down most of the walls and smashing the windows. God alone knew what they were looking for, unless it was a weapons dump. She snorted at the thought. The only weapons kept in the house were her pistol and Smith’s shotgun. They wouldn't find anything else. Finally, they pulled her to her feet and marched her towards one of their hover-vehicles. The interior was surprisingly roomy compared to some of the vehicles she’d seen in Afghanistan, but it would have been designed for alien bodies. They clanged the hatch shut behind her, leaving her in darkness. There was no light at all inside the chamber.

  A faint hum echoed through the vehicle and she realised, after a moment, that they were on their way. There weren’t supposed to be any IEDs hidden around Smith’s farm, but she found herself hoping that someone had disobeyed orders and planted one in a position where it might catch the alien convoy. If they interrogated her...she resolved to hold out as long as possible, or invent lies to keep the aliens happy. She knew that there had been hundreds of attacks on the aliens that had had nothing to do with her little band – if she claimed credit for them, it should confuse the aliens a little. It might even might them slow down their sweeps in the belief that they’d caught the resistance’s leader...

  Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  She had almost lost track of time when the hum faded away and she heard the sound of scrabbling on the outside of the vehicle. The hatch clicked open, revealing a pair of aliens looking down at her. One of them reached for her leg with a clawed hand and pulled her towards the hatch, while the other held a gun pointed at her head. Alex almost burst out laughing, wondering just why the aliens thought she was so dangerous. She was alone, her hands were bound behind her back and she was unarmed. Did they think she was Wonder Woman or someone else with superhuman strength?

  They pulled her out of the vehicle and held her upright long enough to regain her balance, before pushing her towards a gate in a massive fence. Inside, there were a large number of humans – all female, wearing rags. A second camp, some distance away, held men. They didn't look to be in any better shape. One of the aliens caught her hands, clipped the plastic tie free, and then shoved her through the gate. It closed behind her with an ominous click.

  “Alex,” a voice said. “Thank God you’re alive!”

  Alex turned to see Jean, Smith’s wife, standing there. “Someone in the town betrayed us,” she said, bitterly. It looked as if she’d been crying. “They came for us, arrested us and dumped us here. I hoped you’re get away.”

  “I walked right into them,” Alex admitted. It gave her no pleasure to admit the truth, but there was no point in lying. She looked at her fellow captives and shivered. Most of them looked to have spent weeks in the detention camp, fed on very little. They looked thin and worn. There were some blankets to lie on, but no shelters. Alex realised that many of them were suffering from exposure. The aliens didn't seem to care. “And then they just brought me here.”

  Over the next few hours, she chatted to many of the women. They’d all been taken as prisoners by alien sweeps, apparently because they were linked to one or more of the insurgents. Several of the women thought that they’d been picked up at random, although they liked to think that their husbands or brothers were still fighting the aliens. A number had had military personnel in their families, although Alex was the only actual military person in the camp. The male camp didn't look to be any different. In fact, both camps appeared to be reaching capacity.

  Jean caught her arm. “What are we going to do?”

  Alex looked up, past the wire. They were inside an alien base, surrounded by aliens – and she didn't even know where they were. The alien vehicles moved with astonishing speed. They could be in Scotland, or Wales, or on the other side of London...there was no way to know for sure. It looked as if the aliens had built their base on top of a RAF base, but it wasn't one she recognised. That really only excluded a handful of bases from consideration.

  And if they were removing military personnel, why hadn't they taken her? A moment later, it struck her – they hadn't identified her. They presumably thought she was just a civilian insurgent, rather than a military officer carrying on the war. And that gave her an edge, if she stayed alive long enough to figure out how to use it.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. No, that wasn't quite true. “We can't do anything at the moment, so we wait. Who knows? Maybe the horse will learn to sing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 35

  “No, I don’t know why they want you,” Robin said, as patiently as he could. “All I know is that we have been ordered to pick you up and hand you over to them.”

  Silently, he cursed his orders under his breath. The aliens had ordered their puppet Prime Minister to round up several hundred people from London, people who seemed to have little in common. They certainly didn't have any links to the resistance as far as Robin could see. Once rounded up, they were to be handed over to the aliens and then...there was no clear answer. It didn't sound very good, but what choice did they have? The aliens wouldn't be anything like as patient with reluctant humans.

  The young man they’d been sent to pick up didn't look very healthy. In fact, like most of the city’s population, he’d clearly been losing weight now that he had nothing to eat, but
the tasteless mush the aliens supplied. Real food was only available for collaborators and on the black market and their target lacked the contacts to obtain something that would have been readily available a month ago. Robin couldn't think of any reason why the aliens wanted him in particular, but they had clearly made up their minds. The young man’s mother and father looked just as worried, even though they weren't coming with him. And the looks they were casting at Robin when they thought he wasn't watching...

  He shivered. It was normal for people to be a little nervous around the police. Everyone had something weighing on their minds, even if it was comparatively minor compared to serial killing or paedophilia. The police represented law and order. But now...? Now the entire city – the entire country – was afraid of the police. The slaughter in Central London had broken their reputation once and for all. On their drive to the young man’s house, they’d avoided several stones thrown at them by youths – and there were parts of the city that were no-go zones for them now. Robin hated conceding anything to the thugs who called themselves community leaders, but the alternative was to ask the aliens to help. And that would mean another slaughter.

  Some policemen, including several he knew personal, had deserted, vanishing into London’s overcrowded city blocks. Several others had killed themselves, swallowing vast quantities of painkillers or hanging themselves from the ceiling. Even those that had tried to remain on duty had been demoralised, after the slaughter. They knew that they were forever tainted by what the aliens had done, even though they’d never ordered it or wanted it to happen. How could they ever seek forgiveness from an angry population?

  “It’s going to be fine,” Robin said, although he suspected otherwise. “You’re allowed to take an overnight bag with you, so pack clean underwear and anything else you think you might need.”

  They waited while the young man and his mother packed a bag. Robin half-hoped that their target would take the opportunity to vanish out of the back door and into the side streets before they could catch him, but he didn't seem to have the nerve. He returned to the door with a large bag slung over his shoulder and an expression that suggested that he was going to his own funeral. Robin, who’d had a moment to study the awards pinned to the wall, suspected otherwise. The aliens had lost one of their projects when the suicide bomber had blown up Gilmore Technical College, but they were still interested in human computers. And the people on the list they’d been ordered to bring in had vast computer experience. It made little sense to him – the aliens could cross the stars, which suggested they should have better computers – but it was the only reason he could imagine. Or maybe they just wanted hostages to shoot.

  He escorted the young man down and into the police car, scowling at the rotten egg someone had smashed across the windscreen while they’d been in the house. A quick check around the vehicle revealed no signs that anyone had tried to place an IED under the car, like the bomb that had killed two policemen three days ago. The resistance seemed to be conserving its weapons, which hadn't stopped it and various criminal gangs improvising weapons and using them to attack the police. Who would have thought that something would unite London’s disparate political and religious factions against a single target? Robin would have been mildly impressed if he hadn't been the target.

  The drive through London's empty streets took longer than he had expected. Several cars had been moved out of place and used to block or divert police traffic, while several groups of young men looking for trouble had made threatening motions towards the car. At least the gangs weren't trying to attack the alien base in Central London, not after they’d realised that the alien guards had authority to return fire with live ammunition. It hadn't stopped the resistance from setting up a mortar every few days and lobbing shells into the alien positions.

  He winced as he caught sight of the prostitutes on one street corner. So many women had been rendered homeless or broke by the invasion that there were currently thousands of prostitutes in London. Many of them would have preferred to be doing something – anything – else, but the aliens weren't interested in relief programs. They doled out their tasteless food and otherwise left the population to live or die on its own. Robin knew that some policemen had suggested finding roles for the women within the civil service, but the suggestion hadn't found favour with the collaborator government. Perhaps the civil servants had managed to cobble together a union and get a ban on scab labour. The thought made him smile. If there was anything capable of working through an alien invasion, it was the British civil service.

  “So,” the young man said, “where are you taking me?”

  “We’re taking you to the aliens,” Robin said. He wanted to tell a comforting lie. “I don’t know what they want to do with you.”

  “And you work for them,” the young man asked. “How do you sleep at night?”

  Robin bit down the response that came to mind. The truth was that he didn't sleep very well at night, something shared by almost all of the policemen he knew. When he closed his eyes, he saw the slaughter the aliens had unleashed, or the helpless looks on their prisoners as they marched them off to an unknown fate. He thought about his wife, safe yet isolated outside the city, and shivered. If she knew what he’d done in the name of the aliens, she would never want to sleep beside him again. Some policemen had started popping sleeping pills and antidepressants, just to keep themselves going. He wondered how long it would be before he found himself doing the same thing, or perhaps taking one of the concealed weapons and putting a bullet through his own brain.

  “Badly,” he said, finally. He took firm hold of his temper before the urge to lash out grew too overpowering. The young man wasn't to blame. Several policemen had given into the stress and started beating their suspects, but he didn't want to fall that far. “If I’d known what they would be like back then...”

  But they hadn't had a choice, had they? How easily they’d clambered onto the slippery slope! And how hard it would be to wash the blood from their hands. They’d told themselves that they were protecting the people, but they’d become the tools of the aliens – the same aliens who had slaughtered thousands in London just to keep the peace. They weren't protecting the people any longer, were they? They’d become another alien tool.

  And yet...what choice did they have?

  He remembered the weapons and shivered again. They could take them and fight back...and be destroyed when the aliens started using heavy weapons on London. There were reports that the aliens had already destroyed a number of small towns for daring to fight when the aliens arrived, or that they’d wrecked havoc in other parts of the world. Against such firepower, what could they do? The only thing they could do was die bravely. And every day, the thought of death seemed more and more attractive. He looked down at his hands and wondered if he would ever be able to wash the bloodstains off his soul.

  They came to a halt by the alien fence and waited for the alien guards to confirm their identity. Once they were satisfied that they had the right person, the aliens took the young man away, leaving Robin and Constable Jasper to their own devices. Robin watched the gate swing closed behind them and then ordered Jasper to take them back to the station. He had a bottle of brandy he’d picked up from one of the abandoned houses in his locker. If he drank it all, perhaps he would get drunk and forget about the rest of the world. Or perhaps he’d just wake up with a hangover and have to go back on duty anyway.

  And tell me, he thought, rather sourly. Bitter self-hatred welled up within him. How many had died because he had chosen to collaborate with the aliens? Each of his justifications felt less and less logical every time he thought about them. What exactly do you deserve?

  ***

  “I can't do much for the wound,” Fatima admitted. “The best I can do is separate it properly and bandage it up.”

  “You mean amputate my arm,” the man in front of her said. He'd taken an alien bullet that had punched right through his upper arm, shattering his bone to dust
. His arm now hung limply from what remained of his flesh, bound up with cloth to prevent it from tearing loose and falling to the floor. “There’s nothing else you can do?”

  Fatima shook her head. The resistance had gathered what medical supplies they could, but London had been short on medical supplies and equipment ever since the invasion. There were wounded that would have made a full recovery – if they had the right equipment – who would almost certainly be cripples for the rest of their lives. The man who’d lost an arm was hardly the worst of them. She honestly didn't know how some of them had held on to their lives. Determination to hurt the aliens before they died, perhaps.

  “I'm afraid not,” she said, as she started to wash her hands. The NHS had a poor reputation for keeping hospitals clean, but none of the ones she’d worked in had been anything like as bad as the abandoned house they’d turned into a medical centre. It had taken her hours to clean the place to a minimum standard and even then she had a feeling that it was still alarmingly unhealthy. “We don’t have prosthetics we could use to give you a new arm, or replace the shattered bone. Even if we did have, I’m not sure you could recover after that level of trauma.”